Jay's POV
They called her many names.
Liar. Drama queen. Attention seeker. Whore. Psycho. Villain.
But I knew her by the quiet way she protected girls who never said thank you.
I knew her by the way she used to clench her fists when teachers joked about skirts being "distractions."
I knew her by the way she'd sit in silence for hours, choosing not to explode—because she already knew no one would clean up after the wreckage if she did.
I knew Ruthie Villanueva before the world did.
And I stayed even when the world didn't.
She never asked me to defend her.
But I did.
Even when I lost my class president title.
Even when the school board gave me a cold handshake and told me I had a "bright future, but poor judgment."
Even when my parents said, "Bakit si Ruthie pa? Ang dami namang matinong babae."
Because I never loved Ruthie because she was easy.
I loved her because she was right.
The first time I held her hand after the chaos, she flinched.
Like it was a favor.
"Hindi kita kailangang ipagtanggol," she muttered, pulling away.
"Hindi. Pero gusto ko," I said.
She looked at me like that was the most dangerous thing I'd ever done.
Maybe it was.
But it was the one decision I never regretted.
Years later, I still catch glimpses of the old Ruthie.
In the way she double-checks every door lock.
In the way she still walks a little faster when a group of men laugh too loud behind her.
In the way she reads every contract twice.
But I also see the new Ruthie.
The woman who smiles at survivors like she's passing a torch.
The woman who says "no" without apology.
The woman who writes her truths and bleeds them into the world with no bandages.
We don't talk about Marian anymore.
She faded like a bad signal. A story people outgrew when they grew up.
But her damage stayed.
Ruthie doesn't seek revenge anymore.
She just tries to make sure no one else has to survive the same way she did—alone, doubted, demonized.
One time, I asked her:
"Kung hindi nangyari lahat ng 'yon, do you think we still would've ended up together?"
She paused for a long time.
Then said, "I think... I would've been too afraid of someone like you."
"Why?"
"Because you saw me—even when I was unlovable."
Sometimes I wonder what would've happened if I chose silence instead.
Maybe I'd have awards. Medals. A cushy job.
But not her.
Not the woman who turns pain into power.
Not the girl who once whispered, "Let them hate me. As long as someone finally listens."
Not the hero in everyone else's story—but never her own.
Now, we water plants in the morning.
She laughs easier.
We host writing workshops for teens.
Sometimes, we get hate mail from trolls. She pins them to the fridge like funny magnets.
One note said:
"Still a villain. You ruined our school."
She wrote under it:
"Still standing. You're welcome."
And me?
I just keep standing beside her.
Not because she needs me.
But because I chose her.
And I'll keep choosing her.
Even when her voice shakes.
Even when the world does.
Even when she forgets she ever mattered.
Because I remember.
I always will.
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